Before Creation
by Zagzagel
Summary: Sometimes, a little faith is all one has left to hold onto.


**A/N – This piece is for the Writer's Anonymous One-Word Prompt challenge. I chose number 47 and my word was Creation.**

 **This story takes place during S9E1 "I Think I'm Gonna Like it Here."**

 **Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy!**

 **XX**

* * *

He staggered down the road, disorientated from the crash. It was all irrevocably different, from the shades of the world to the pain digging in, as an uneasy presence. There was the disturbing idea that this driving ache would hollow him out, leaving him a shell of what he was, fumbling along until this final remnant was destroyed. His cheek was a strange mixture of numb and stinging, the feeling of wetness on his face and the heaviness of his collar signaling that this must be blood.

There was little use denying it anymore; he was human. Completely and totally human, everything feeling more worn by that one simple, damning thought.

Hael was dead, his mind filled with his brothers' pleas – his last connection to Heaven – crying out to Father, crying out to each other. Their agony became a part of him, wings burned to almost nothing, as they tried to coerce humans to let them in.

"What is an angel without its wings?" Hael had asked him, and he wondered if he had ever truly been an angel since the first time his had been stripped from him.

Little traffic was on this road and while he kept alert for cars, it was still doubtful anyone would want to pick him up in his condition. He felt a squeezing sensation, knew it to be hunger. His throat burned because he had not drunk. Human needs he was not prepared to meet; he wondered if he would simply collapse and die out here. If this body Father had given him back time and time again would finally return to the embrace of the earth.

Something caught his attention, drawing his gaze towards the trees that heavily lined each side of the road. A body there, barely visible amidst the clutter of ferns and large trunks of old firs. A feeling that he should help drew him closer. The small part of him that had once been angelic whispered a warning that this mass was not human, not really. Deepening shadows of high-above branches made the air feel colder as dry needles under his shoes signaled his approach.

It was a man curled up, lean frame with dirty blond hair and stains on his clothes that were torn. They were really rags, thin shreds of cloth that covered the body with little effect, spotted with blood. There appeared to be no open wounds on the body, the smell of sulfur just strong enough to sting his senses.

He let out a hiss when he saw that face.

Michael.

Castiel's first impulse was to run, take himself far away from here, stand in the road for a car to stop if need be. Say he had been in an accident. One of his own making, yes, but Hael was still back there, dead by the side of the road. If he found help he could go somewhere, find new clothes, call Dean. Dean would know what to do.

Eyes closed, Michael shuddered, seemingly unaware. If Castiel left now, the archangel would not even know he had been here.

The screams of pain from his brothers were still in his head. He looked again at the body. Angels dying, close to dying, Heaven fallen into the hands of a corrupt leader who simply wanted to play God. Castiel knew all about playing God.

All they seemed to be capable of was fighting and killing.

He took off his trench coat, removing Hael's blade from its inner pocket before he placed it over Michael. Then, with blade in hand, he carved a sigil into the tree to keep them hidden from angelic eyes and most other things. Whether or not he stayed, he knew his brothers could not find Michael like this, let alone Metatron. With Michael so injured, he knew his older brother would be tortured. He wished that on no angel.

He could run. He had protected his brother, covered him in case it helped or he was found by humans.

He sat, leaning up against the tree. Michael, a foot away from him, had stopped shaking so violently.

Castiel waited.

 **XX**

* * *

"Do you plan to light me on fire this time?"

Michael's voice jarred him out of his reverie, daydreams of food and being back in the bunker with Dean and Sam. Of being warm. He glanced over. Michael was still curled up, face turned away.

"Is Adam with you?"

"No."

"Did you send him to Heaven?" Castiel had to know, had to have an answer on the youngest Winchester in case he survived this.

"I don't know where he is," Michael said, his voice sounding as though his throat was open and raw. "He was with me in Hell. And then he wasn't."

That answer was not a comfort; he remembered Sam's torture by Lucifer when he had taken those memories. This brother, older and bigger than the devil, might have destroyed a human just out of boredom, and he foolishly sat beside him. He curled his hands together in his lap, stiff with rough bark digging into his back.

"Tell me what has happened, little brother."

"Metatron. He cast the angels out of Heaven and closed the gates." Castiel replied.

"Ah. And you are human because?"

"He stole my grace to do it."

He wanted to add it was his fault, that his decisions only brought failure and suffering. A small voice in his mind told him that Metatron would have eventually found another angel to help him. That all of this would have come to pass even if he had hesitated and not blindly followed. It was little comfort.

His stomach growled, annoyed at being ignored for so long.

"You have needs now, Castiel," Michael said, finally stirring more. His brother was getting up, so he followed suit.

"You should wear the coat," Castiel said. "So we don't draw more attention."

The archangel studied him, a sharp clarity in those eyes, then buttoned the front to hide the majority of his distressed clothing.

"Come, let us find you food so you don't die before you tell me what has happened in my absence."

Michael immediately began walking and Castiel worried that even archangels were affected by this spell. A glance back at him as he followed his brother to the road.

"The Cage was damaged for a moment and I took advantage. Lucifer was displeased. However, the scribe's foolish spell does not affect those older than Heaven itself."

His tone was flat, as if he regretted being here. Or perhaps he regretted being found by him. Castiel would not blame him. He was certain his brother's blade would be through him once he learned the extent of his crimes. His time was merely marked in hours now.

It was late afternoon, the world darkening a bit more, as the sun struggled to push light through the thick boughs of trees as it slid further down. He shivered in just his suit jacket. Michael showed no sign of physical distress, but that he had simply not just beaten the facts out of Castiel was more telling than it should have been. As they traveled down the shoulder of the narrow concrete road, its faded lines barely visible even in the day, he was torn between surviving and not abandoning Michael. No matter what he was.

Michael looked at him sometimes, his face unreadable, as they walked.

 **XX**

* * *

The little town they had arrived in had few amenities. A weathered gas station with pumps that would be antique, something he had learned from riding with the Winchesters. Behind it appeared to be a larger building, more akin to what would be termed a general store that seemed to sell more than just snacks and beer. Beside it was a restaurant, only recognizable as such due to the large sign out in front. The rest of the building looked like a faded house that had stood far past its time, painted in an ugly, faded gray. Lastly, a motel across the street, the type the brothers always insisted on staying in, its half broken sign proclaiming the generic name of "The Highway Inn".

Michael took his arm, steering him towards food.

"I don't have money," he said, Michael looking irked. "And your clothes."

A wave of the hand and at least the jeans were repaired and his brother was holding money in his hand. Yet there were fine lines by his eyes, a pallor that had settled into his skin, as if even that simple act pained him.

"Get some food. That place over there, the one that looks like it's about to collapse under its own weight, that's where humans sleep?"

"Yes."

Michael ushered him through the door into a place that smelled of chlorine and stale coffee. Everything inside had been new perhaps fifty years ago, sun-faded with a sense of despair despite the bay windows beckoning in the sunlight. He stepped to the counter with its large stools as he noticed a man in a booth several feet away. Eyes narrowed, face a maze of wrinkles against a shock of thin white hair, distrustful of the new people.

Thankfully, a waitress appeared. Castiel thought she would be pretty if she wasn't so tired, red hair tied up in a ponytail, a nametag reading 'Mia' pinned at a steep angle on her blouse.

"Stop with the staring, Frank," she called over to the man, who simply ignored her. Then her attention was focused on him as she frowned. "Are you alright?"

"Yes."

It did not seem to be enough as he remembered the state he must be in after the ordeal with Hael. Her frown deepened. Michael stepped closer, a hand on his shoulder.

"My brother fell on our way here. I would like to get him some food and a place to rest."

She relaxed; Michael's tones were soothing even to him. Castiel tried to push down a thought about how both his older brother and Lucifer had clever tongues as the fingers on him flexed and tightened. It was not as though he could help what his mind impulsively came up with, and he understood now why Dean was so adamant about no mind reading.

"Sure thing. What can I get for you?"

Castiel paused, considering the little experience he had with food, and decided to go with one of the few things he knew. "Do you have a cheeseburger?"

"Of course." Her smile got wider, as if they would ever be without. "Do you want just a plain one? Our special today is the bacon guacamole. Promise it's good."

His stomach agreed that it sounded divine at this point with a tight rumble.

"That would be fine."

"For here or to go?"

One glance at the torn vinyl, the scarred beige tile stretching out with some corners missing, and he was met with an instant feeling of claustrophobia. He thought anywhere else to be better, even if it meant eating in the street. "To go please. And may I have a glass of water?"

"Sure thing, hon. Do you want fries or slaw?"

"Fries," he said, unsure what slaw was.

"Just a few minutes."

She turned, sliding the order across the sill of the window behind her. A man back there, his frame almost filling half the window with head obscured, grunted as he took it. Filling a glass with water, she set it down on the counter before bouncing off to the other occupant of this place.

Michael was standing stiff beside him as he slid onto the stool. The water was cold, stopping the burning in his throat after a few mouthfuls, some of the aches becoming more distant. A silver napkin holder was close and he took it, looking at himself, not seeing blood on his clothes. The scratched metal gave him the blurry sight of a couple distinct wounds that still marred his cheek but nothing else was out of order.

Glancing up, he noticed there was a TV suspended from the ceiling with no sound. He didn't need the words though, watching the images. Angels, so many of them, plummeting to earth as they burned with the headline of "Worldwide Global Meteor Shower'. Day, night, multiple continents – scattered and wounded warriors of Heaven, caught for all to see. Shame threatened to suffocate him as he looked away, the thought dawning that this would be his first and last meal as a human when he realized Michael had moved closer.

"Drink your water, little brother."

He did as he was told, making the counter his focus. He concentrated on how many cracks were in the Formica, how they laced together at some points. Their curves and bends that threatened to destroy but hadn't yet. He thought how Hael had been sent to help carve out the Grand Canyon, how the rivers of earth coursed, crafting landscapes born anew from destruction.

"Here you go, hon. That'll be $8.99."

She had come back, holding out a box, and he took a twenty from what Michael had manifested. Taking the ten and single back, he left the dollar bill on the counter. He wished he could leave her something more for a gratuity; her kind face was the one good thing he had seen today. It was best not to be loose with his money as he did not wish to tax Michael further.

They left, walking across the highway, Michael a looming presence, as they approached the motel. Castiel believed it had seen many lifetimes if the spots where the pink paint peeled off in long, lazy strips were any indication. Under them were reds and a little blue, a testimony to its many reincarnations.

The lobby was at least clean, if not old, and he gave his name as Jimmy Novak. He always carried that ID with him, a strange compulsion that he had not understood, even after Jimmy's soul had finally been released during one of his many deaths.

He signed the register, paid for a night and accepted the key. Michael never uttered a word, either in the lobby or as they walked to the room. When they were inside he didn't care about the state of the room, he had to eat. There was a small table with one chair, despite the room being a double, and he sat. The room was rank with dust and sweat and something dank, but the food overpowered those scents. The taste, the texture of the food, the simple act of eating, was so good that he blocked everything else out until he felt a hand in his hair.

"Slower, Castiel. You'll make yourself sick."

Reluctantly, he slowed because Michael was right. Sounds of running water and he looked up, seeing Michael returning with a glass. He drank, grateful, as his brother sat on the closest bed, waiting.

Suddenly he wanted to eat as slowly as possible, so he wouldn't have to talk. Eventually, though, all the food was exhausted, his stomach sated. He knew his brother's attention was on him.

"So, little brother, tell me these sins you are so frantic about."

Michael was watching, hands on his knees, still wearing Castiel's coat all buttoned up. Castiel couldn't look, diverting his eyes to the floor that was covered by a threadbare rug slowly giving up its fight to exist. The possibility of lying occurred to him, even if Michael could at least skim his mind, but he dismissed it. So much of this, all this heartbreak, was from lying and secrets. Even if the truth was his death, he had to tell it.

Foreboding gnawed at Castiel, the idea that Michael's kindness was only to get a confession before the pain began again.

The first part was easy – how he had found himself recreated and in Stull Cemetery after Michael and Lucifer had fallen to Hell with the souls of their vessels. How he had been filled with purpose and more power. That he had been foolish then, believing that he could make Heaven better, to actually feel happiness. To make the choir sing from joy for the first time in so long.

Of how, in his desperation to fight Raphael, he had partnered with a demon. With those words he felt the weight of Michael in the room now, that glorious power of the oldest settling in around him.

He told of seeking Purgatory, of stealing and using the weapons of Heaven and how in the end he had betrayed everyone to take in millions upon millions of souls so the Cage wouldn't be reopened, that in his naiveté he believed that the earth would be safe if he had that cursed power.

Of how he proclaimed himself God and slaughtered all those who opposed him without thought. Of how it was the humans who guided him home.

He was crying. No, that wasn't the right word. He was weeping. It was freeing in a way, these emotions that the humans had. His face was buried in his hands because he knew of the burned wings marring Heaven, the smell of the destruction of grace. Each name he knew; each existence he crushed he remembered.

There was no Heaven for angels.

"So, that is why I smelled the ancient ones when I first woke," Michael said with an unsettling calmness as Castiel composed himself. "Did you send the leader back?"

"Yes. The Winchesters, the prophet, myself, and a demon ally."

"Did you not learn your lesson the first time?"

"She died saving the Winchesters from the King of Hell."

Michael was silent for a moment as Castiel twisted his hands together. He found he could not say that they needed saving because he had abandoned them yet again.

"After that disaster, what did your recklessness do?"

"Dean Winchester and I were trapped in Purgatory. We found a portal through the help of a vampire that wanted out and Dean made it through."

"And you?"

"I did not deserve to be free. I let go."

"Yet here you are, causing havoc."

"Heaven came. Naomi," he said, finally looking up, seeing displeasure on Michael's face. "She did something to me, controlled me till I held the angel tablet. She tried to warn me later about Metatron, but I would not listen, and he killed her."

What had happened at the end, when she had come to him weeping for Heaven, for humanity, for creation. He should have listened, but it was far too late by then. A sharp pain in his palm and he looked down, seeing that he was leaving marks by how tightly fisted his hands were as Michael stood.

This was it. His brother would not even need his blade to kill him. Michael was capable of effortlessly snapping his neck in less than a second.

"Enough. Go lie down. I need to meditate and you need rest."

Castiel couldn't find the will to rise. Then hands were on his shoulders, pulling him upwards, his legs shaking and barely holding. Michael's face was blank, but he could see it in those eyes. Oh, the fury of Heaven before him, no matter how injured, that fiery light edging in.

"Do as I say, Castiel."

He was released and he stumbled to a bed, sitting before he collapsed. He lay down, not bothering with his clothes or shoes, pulling a part of the comforter over him. He couldn't find a word for its smell; the pillow had a musty staleness all its own.

"You killed Raphael."

He curled his fingers against the harsh fibers of the fabric, fighting the urge to hide himself completely under it. "Yes."

"You and Morning Star have much in common, little brother."

Closing his eyes, he tried not to think of the truth in that, unsure if he would wake again.

 **XX**

* * *

For a moment, when he awoke, he didn't know where he was. It was dark, a thin trail of light over one wall, the curtains being illuminated like dark, still wings. Red numbers on the alarm clock helpfully informed him it was three fifteen. In the morning, he assumed, given the conditions. His body was sore, muscles stiff, and he wished he was asleep again so he wouldn't feel the pain he could not heal.

Michael let out a soft noise, a choked sound, and he was a bit more awake now. He waited for his brother to speak, to reprimand him, but only another of those broken sounds came.

"Michael?"

Nothing. The air was cold against him as he pulled off the comforter, hearing a car pass down the highway, and then silence. No sounds of people or life, just his brother making that noise that unsettled him more each time it came. Getting himself up, making muscles stretch and flex no matter their protestations, he moved in the dark, hands out in front of him. He was fairly certain Michael was on the other bed as that seemed to be where the noise was radiating from, and in a moment he found his brother.

He was hot, burning like a star, and he immediately moved his hand away.

That noise came again, longer and more pained.

Fumbling, he found a light and managed to turn it on instead of knocking it off the bed side table. The room was cast in its weak glow, providing a gloom that fit well with the rest of the décor. Everything old and dark and fading, and he was afraid his brother was joining it.

Michael was curled up again, as he had been when Castiel had found him by that tree. His eyes were closed, body rigid. Moving around the bed so he could see his brother's face more clearly, he shook him gently, hoping not to be mauled by his attempts. Those eyes snapped open and in them was a terrible truth. They were cloudy, not seeing what was here, as his brother spoke in their language:

 _'Please, Father.'_

All the anger and rage he had stored up and let boil over for this brother, the one that had allowed so much to happen in the name of destiny, evaporated in that moment. His own lips had uttered that plea repeatedly and he doubted either of them had ever been answered. There didn't seem to be anything to do, to bring his brother back from his torment in Hell, as a shudder ran through Michael, that small sound coming again.

 _'Father, I can't find him. Did you answer my prayer? Have I failed him one last time?'_

"Michael, can you hear me?" he said, hoping for a response but those dim eyes didn't even shift. "You are not in Hell anymore. You are here with me in a motel room on earth."

He tried shaking him again, Michael's skin almost painful to touch. His brother's fingers were curled into claws, every single part of him radiated pain. There was a glow to his face. Castiel thought for a moment and he felt that the human description of feverish fit him. His now human eyes could no longer see his brother's injuries, but they had to be severe to cause Michael to lose this much control.

He instinctively moved to the phone. It was doubtful that any of his brothers would come purely out of compassion to help if he prayed, and he felt lost and frantic at what to do. Only two allies existed; maybe they could help with a suggestion. This hope faded when he saw the little placard by the phone proclaiming one needed other means for outside calls.

Going to the window, he pulled back the faded curtain, blinking at the orange haze from the few outside lights illuminating the small parking strip. Across the street, the gas station was still bright, overhead fluorescents casting pools against the asphalt in sharp contrast to the night kept barely at bay. A red sign flashed and spelled the word 'open' over and over in one window. Maybe, just maybe, and he grabbed the key before pausing.

"I'll be back."

Another anguished sound, and he was outside, finding himself running without thinking. He burst into the small store, cold wind following and ruffling papers behind him. An older woman was behind the counter, heavy set with a surprised look in her eyes, jet black hair cut close to her face.

"Can I help you?" she asked, words slow, and he didn't have time to take in whether he looked threatening or not.

"Please. My brother is ill and I need a way to call someone."

Her face relaxed slightly as she leaned on the counter, pointing to a shelf. "We sell prepaid here."

Frustration at the thought of using those infernal phones again. Dean had always set them up for him and, knowing his level of confusion, it would take him hours to get it right by himself.

"Toss me one," she said and he took one that looked cheap, placing it on the counter. She produced scissors, freeing it as the seconds passed, and he kept looking back at the motel. "He pretty bad?"

"He's –" Castiel paused, not knowing how to explain as she opened the phone, pressing a button as the screen lit up. "He thinks he's trapped somewhere and I don't know how to help him."

"He a vet?" she asked, not seeing his confused face, as she punched in a long line of numbers. "Them boys go to war and the lucky get to come home not in a body bag. But they bring the war with them sometimes."

"He is a soldier," Castiel allowed.

"Poor thing," she answered as he choked down a hysterical laugh at what a rational Michael would think of that. "Here, you probably should plug it in when you get back, but it's up and working with some free minutes."

Castiel reached into his pocket, pulling out the ever decreasing fold of money. She shook her head, shoving the phone at him.

"Don't worry about it. Go on back. Best not to leave him alone too long."

"Thank you," he whispered, taking the phone and the rest of its packaging.

He ran back across the highway, dropping the key to the room before he was finally able to open the door, room swimming in his eyes, as his breath came too fast. Michael was the same as when he left him, curled up, eyes wide and not seeing.

He sat by his brother, shaking him again, but got nothing. Distant memories of his time in Hell and what Sam had felt in the Cage when not being plagued by Lucifer – cut off from light and love and what being alive actually meant – assaulted him. There was probably little the Winchesters could do, and he hesitated before calling.

 _'Father, what did I need to do for you to love me?'_

He hit send on the phone, dread and hope a chaotic flow inside him.

"Whoever you are, this better be damn good."

"Dean, it's me."

"Cas! Man, are you doing okay out there?"

"Yes," he said, the idea surfacing that perhaps he woke Dean out of his necessary four hours of sleep, before he remembered something else. "How is Sam?"

A hesitation, then, "Doing good. Upright at least. What's got you calling at the ass crack of dawn?"

"I –" he glanced towards Michael, "I am with one of my brothers."

"Is this the stabby kind or the helping kind? Because I don't know many that aren't the stabby kind."

"Helping. At least for now, but I don't know how to help him."

"Okay, calm down, sparky. Give me a second here."

A sound of rustling, some other background noise he couldn't identify as he clutched the phone tighter. Michael made a long, drawn-out sound that swept under his skin, making him think of ice and death.

"So, one, which angel are you with? The one you were with earlier?"

"No. I was forced to kill her after she abducted and then tried to possess me."

"Always good to make friends, Cas," Dean said, his voice wary and on edge. "In that case, what fluttering lunatic are you with now?"

Perhaps his one friend would hang up on him if he answered, lose faith that he had any worth at all. Again, the thought to lie, which came more easy to him now, surfaced. But he had already lied enough to his friend.

"Cas?"

"It's –" he couldn't say anymore, faltering for words, as Michael's fingers flexed against air.

 _'Father!'_

"Please, please tell me you aren't sitting there with Lucifer. Anything is better than Satan. You got me?"

The word came out as a short burst, "Michael."

"Well, shit. I mean, Jesus Christ, Cas. Him? What the hell does he need help with and why is he out?"

"The Cage was damaged for a moment and he fought his way out, but he is injured. Right now, he believes he is in Hell, his skin is burning up and he won't respond to me."

"And you want to help the psycho who wanted to end the world and that you lit on fire the last time you saw him." A sigh, something heavy and he imagined Dean with his shoulders slumped, looking disappointed. "I gotta say, it might be better to leave him in flashback land and just run. We don't know what he wants or what he's going to do and Cas, I hate to say this but when he finds out about you –"

"I already told him what I've done."

Another pause. Castiel squeezed Michael's fingers but no response.

"And he didn't just shiv you?"

"He made me go to bed to rest. I woke to him like this."

"Huh. Not real keen on helping him."

"I understand. He's still my brother. He's fed me, found a place for me to rest, and has not harmed me."

"Long con."

Castiel looked at his brother, who convulsed, and he didn't think so, for once feeling certain.

 _'Father, why did you make me put my Morning Star in this place?'_

"Was that him? What's he saying?" It was a demand, as though Michael was uttering some curse against them.

"He's praying, asking God why."

"Oh."

Silence – yet this phone was a strange comfort, to be able to talk to those even if there was little to be done. Even if they did not approve. Perhaps Michael would come out of this soon, but he distrusted those hazy eyes, memories from his own bout with insanity bolstering that belief.

"Cas, I hate to say this but you haven't always made the best choices, especially recently. Like when I told you to park your ass at home and you ended up accidentally closing Heaven."

"I know," he answered, closing his eyes that were hot and wet.

"May I also remind you that there's a bunch of very pissed off angels out there searching for you. For once, would you think of your own hide –"

"I can't."

"Why the hell not?"

"Partly, I do not want another angel to find him like this. Metatron getting his hands on him would be disastrous if he is in this state."

"Okay, well yeah, there's that," Dean said reluctantly, as if he didn't want to be shown any logic. "And the other part? I mean, Luci didn't seem to have the issue when his box was popped."

"I believe Lucifer kept some sanity fueled by his deep rage and denial," Castiel said. "I don't believe, in the end, Michael had that kind of protection as he thought he was obeying and was abandoned all the same. I know a small fraction of this pain from Sam's memories and I cannot leave him like this."

A gust of air into the phone and he knew Dean had conceded, at least for a few minutes.

"Alright, you said he was burning up?"

"He feels like his clothes will combust soon."

"You guys feel in those bodies, right? Like if we gave him a shock, maybe that will pull him out of this?"

"I suppose," Castiel replied, the glimmer of an idea forming when Dean confirmed it.

"Well, you can make him an ice bath. It'll either work or he'll think Luci stopped by for a visit. You got an ice machine there?"

"Yes, outside."

"Cold water in the tub. There should be a large container around for the ice, even if it's a dive."

Castiel stood, Michael still making those noises and fragmented prayers, as he went to the bathroom. Turning the water on, he remembered that he needed to keep it in the tub, and tried pushing the small lever beneath the tap up. It seemed to work and he found a large plastic tub on the counter by the cups. Cheap, but he thought it would do, as he made his way outside, remembering at the last moment to take the key with him.

Dean was silent as Castiel did his work, his neck starting to feel cramped as he held the phone against his shoulder as he needed both hands free. The water in the tub rose, ice floating and he turned off the water before it was full.

He paused, staring at himself in the mirror. Unkempt, shirt untucked, tie half undone, a button missing with dirt on his cuffs. No wonder the woman behind the counter had thought him crazed.

"Did he say what happened to Adam?"

"I think he doesn't know. I believe he prayed to Father to take Adam and he lost track –"

"Lost track? Lost track?" Dean was livid, spitting. "How the hell did he just lose track?"

"I don't know. I will ask him when he is rational." He hadn't meant for his voice to be so harsh, and took a breath. "I apologize, but he is not getting better and if you want answers, we have to help him."

"Fine. You gotta put him in that water."

"I will have to put down the phone."

"Leave it on in the bathroom, okay? I want to make sure – " Dean stopped, but Castiel knew it was worry he may end up dead and his friend wanted to know.

Looking at the keypad, he found a small button with a horn on it and pushed it. "Can you hear me?"

"Yep, got you loud and clear," Dean said, the phone making a slight crackling noise.

"I'll leave it in here."

Placing the phone on the counter, he returned to Michael. The archangel was fully dressed, coat included, and Castiel felt that if possible these things should come off. Unbuttoning was easy and he was relieved that Michael allowed his limbs to be moved. If Michael was unwilling to move, very few things could force him.

His brother, the sword of Heaven, making himself small. He tried not to think.

It was a struggle, sweat on his skin, his suit jacket thrown haphazardly on his own bed, and his shirt cuffs undone. His brother kept wanting to curl back up, uttering prayers to a Father who had long ago stopped answering. He tried to place it out of his mind as he worked, getting the layers off, exposing the hot skin to the air of the room, hoping it might help.

Michael's physical body was slightly lighter than his but he knew it would still be heavy, the heat of his skin almost overwhelming as it sank through the thin fabric of his shirt. Somehow his body had enough strength, bones complaining under the added weight, as he struggled to half drag his brother into the bathroom, fought to not just drop him from a height into the cold water.

The ice diminished as he got Michael into the tub, but those eyes were suddenly on him, truly seeing him.

"I'm sorry," he told his brother, who was staring at him, blinking and wet. "I didn't know what else to do."

Michael didn't respond, just looked at him until he tried to stand up. A hand on his wrist, so tight, his brother's fingers were a vice, and he was afraid Michael would break his bones.

"I just need –" he glanced over. Saw that if he stretched he could reach the phone and did so, turning off the speaker, as he held it to his ear. "We're okay."

Carefully he lowered himself down on the floor, awkward between Michael's grip on him and holding the phone. The floor was uncomfortable and did not look clean, something brown in the grout and the white tile with dirt so worn in, it had permanently changed color.

"Well, can't say I'm thrilled, but I guess it's maybe better than having him go haywire and burn stuff down. I want check-ins, Cas, you hear me? I want to know what you two are doing and where you're going and all that stuff."

"Yes, Dean," he said, and Michael let out a small sound that he wasn't sure was amusement or annoyance.

"We've got enough angel problems, is what I'm saying. Rather keep track of the ones we know about. And ask him, okay?"

"I will."

"Call me in a few hours."

The call was dropped and he put his hand down, Michael with a pained look on his face, hand still tight on his wrist.

"Dean Winchester?"

"Yes. I didn't know how to help you and he's all I have left to trust."

There was no response, Michael shutting his eyes. A sensation that his brother was tired and worn. Castiel laid his head on the edge of the tub, relishing the cool porcelain against his heated skin.

"He wanted to know where Adam is."

"I prayed for him to be released, and one day he was gone. I do not know more than that, other than it was too quiet without his consistently angry comments."

Michael sounded far away, Castiel's own arm falling into the tub, wetting his shirt sleeve with the now warmer water. A part of him wanted to climb into it and just relax. It felt good. Perhaps it would do something for his aching body, which promised to become more sore in the near future.

"I wanted to see it one more time," the archangel said, his voice so soft it was hard to hear the words.

Castiel raised his head up a bit to see his brother, the sorrow that was there, as the hand on him grew lighter, slid down against his palm.

"To be free, to feel creation before…" Michael's voice trailed off, his eyes closing again.

Castiel took the hand against his and lay his head back down. The weight on both of them, the want to just stop. There was little he could offer his brother outside of staying, so he stayed.

 **XX**

* * *

When he awoke this time it was morning, light bright and stinging his eyes. Michael was sitting on his bed, watching, and he instantly understood all the past complaints from his humans about angel staring while sleeping. His brother was holding something and, as he got his eyes to focus, he saw it was a small white bottle and a glass of water.

"Apparently you made quite an impression on the clerk last night."

Castiel swallowed, wondering if his brother would be angry, but the face that greeted him was carefully blank. He took the items, seeing that the pills were supposed to help with pain. Studying the instructions, he saw the dosage was two and took them out, swallowing them down with the water he had been brought.

"Clean yourself up some and we will find you something to eat," Michael said, standing and going to look out the window, hands behind his back.

Castiel noticed that his brother was dressed, complete with his coat.

His body felt abused, weary and twisted as he got up, stumbling into the bathroom. Looking in the mirror, he saw the deep circles under his eyes, a paleness to his face that made the gash on his left cheek stand out in startling detail. Even his hands felt stiff as he undressed, finding bruises all over, more than likely from the car crash.

After almost freezing himself, he figured out a proper temperature for the shower and it was wonderful. The heat was welcome and he wanted to just stay in here, sit on the bottom of the tub, and let the water run over him forever. He doubted Michael had the patience for that. So he finished, the towels harsh against his wet skin. His clothes were dirty; he would need to wash them soon, but he tried his best to look presentable.

There seemed to be so much to being human, tooth brushes and shampoo and many little details he was certain would be overlooked until he found need of them.

"We will make a list when we come back for your essentials," Michael said as he entered the main room.

Remembering his promise to Dean, Castiel picked up the phone, under his brother's questioning glance.

"I told him I would check in," he said, dialing.

A small huff, something that made him think of a laugh, as Michael went back to looking out the window. Dean's voicemail played in his ear and he hoped his friend was simply busy and not avoiding him.

"Hello, Dean. It's me. Castiel. You asked me to call. I got up, took a shower, and I believe we are going to eat. I will call again."

He hung up and swore that Michael was fully laughing at him without showing it before his brother went and opened the door.

"Come. It is a beautiful day and we will feed you, since that is what you told the almighty Dean Winchester."

There was no anger in his voice, no resentment, which surprised Castiel, as he followed him out, blinking at the sunlight. It truly was a beautiful day, cool but not cold even with the breeze, the scent of life all around them. The sky was a muted blue in the early morning, not quite reaching the vibrancy it would have in the warmth of afternoon. He trailed after his brother across the small parking strip for the motel. He wanted to ask Michael if he still wanted to destroy all of this, if he was using him to get to Dean, when his brother stopped.

"I should hate you," Michael said, his voice low, back to him, and Castiel stared down at the paint that stubbornly held on as flakes, marking the parking spots. "I should kill you for what you've done."

"You should," he agreed, not understanding why that hadn't happened yet.

"Are you so willing to run from your mistakes that you would hand your life over to me?"

Castiel tried to find words but could not free them from his throat. The feeling of suffocation, the loss and grief and his brothers now sentenced to earth, bringing their wars here with them. Already, their petty grievances, factions forming to fight against others, and murders were starting. It never ended, the violence. Perhaps they were all made flawed, that this was always the outcome.

Perhaps this was why Father left.

"When you fell asleep I thought of stripping the flesh off your bones, of carving my seal upon your organs. Then repairing you over and over again. To hear you scream for death to repay you for what you have done to me and our family."

Castiel's throat felt overly dry as he pushed out the words, "And now?"

There wasn't an answer, his brother simply drawing the flaps of the trench coat tighter around himself.

"Do you wish me to leave you, Michael?" he asked, uncertain of what was wanted. He still had money and he understood about buses. While unpleasant, he felt that he could withstand it to go to the Winchesters. Dean might not be happy to see him but he could find shelter there.

"No," Michael said at last. His brother turned his head, looking back at him before shifting to hold out his hand. "Little Castiel, we must find you food."

Hesitantly, he stepped forward and took that hand, Michael giving him a gentle tug to bring him closer.

"I am furious," his brother whispered to him. "More so than you imagine, but I will not strike you down."

He wanted to ask why a thousand times over as they stood in the glow of morning. Castiel swallowed, Michael looking at him, and he could see the endlessness of creation reflected back. Those eyes that had seen the birth of everything.

"There is something worth saving here while we bring our brothers home," Michael said. "This is the work we are meant to do now."

Michael linked their arms together, moving again. As they waited for a truck to rattle by on the highway, Castiel thought on those words. Of the complete implausibility of finding Michael where and how he did. As they crossed the highway, he glanced over at his brother, who was more at ease this morning.

As Michael held the door for him to enter the restaurant, the smell of food greeting them, he thought that he, too, had a little faith left.


End file.
